Page:Carroll - Phantasmagoria and other poems (1869).djvu/204

192 Who let the dream of bliss denied
 * Make havoc of our life and powers,

And pine, in solitary pride,
 * For peace that never shall be ours,

Because we will not work and wait In trustful patience for our fate.

And so it chanced once more that she
 * Came by the old familiar spot;

The face he would have died to see
 * Bent o'er him, and he knew it not:

Too rapt in selfish grief to hear, Even when happiness was near.

And pity filled her gentle breast
 * For him that would not stir nor speak;

The dying crimson of the west,
 * That faintly tinged his haggard cheek,

Fell on her as she stood, and shed A glory round the patient head.